


How We Both Wondrously Perish

by bluester007



Category: Percy - Fandom, Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan, The Heroes of Olympus - Rick Riordan
Genre: I'm an evil bitch sorry, M/M, Self Harm, Slash, attempted suicide, trigger - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-07
Updated: 2014-07-07
Packaged: 2018-02-07 20:57:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1913571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluester007/pseuds/bluester007
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They both have scars that run too deep; they're both too broken for words. But they're going to make it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How We Both Wondrously Perish

Nico remembers that night, the night he walked into Bunker 9 and knew, instantly, that something was very, very wrong.

He remembers the smell, the tang of something metallic, like rust and salt, filling the air, and he remembers how he couldn’t get it out of his lungs, not for days and days afterwards.

He remembers the bitter cold, remembers thinking how _absolutely freezing_ it was. Nico never really felt the cold, especially not in the middle of summer, and being in Bunker 9 is usually like being inside an oven; Leo’s natural body heat keeps the place toasty-warm. But in that moment, all the warmth, all the _life_ , seemed to have left the expansive cavern; Nico swears his heart stopped beating the moment he stepped inside.

He remembers that feeling, one that he’s experienced many times before. Heck, he practically radiates it himself. It wasn’t a new feeling in the slightest. But this time, it felt _wrong_ somehow, completely out of place. The dust in the air seemed to dance in a haunting pattern, spelling out words and playing out images, scenes, of bloody, violent deaths, over and over again. And he knew then that the feeling wasn’t _death_ , precisely – or, at least, the feeling he’d come to associate with being near death. No, this felt much more intimate, and so much more painful. He could feel a life force, one that usually glowed brightly, fiercely, slowly flickering out like a candle caught in a breeze.

He remembers the feeling of dread, so acutely pronounced, and then his feet had moved before his mind had given the command, and he had fallen to pieces, shattered like a wall of glass, at the sight of the mess on the floor behind the work bench he’s sat on many, many times before.

There had been a mess of crimson, like someone had taken a brush and splashed red paint _absolutely everywhere_ , and Nico refused to believe, for a moment, that what he was seeing was even real. He told himself it was just a dream, just another horrible, horrible dream.

The boy on the floor clutched a knife in his paint-splattered hand, but his grip was slackening, and Nico didn’t think, didn’t waste another moment, before he snatched the knife away and tore off his shirt, ripping it into two, wrapping it around smeared wrists and biting back the bile rising in the back of his throat.

He had contemplated for all of three seconds the pros and cons of shadow traveling to the infirmary or running through the woods with the boy in his arms. Then he hugged the boy to his bare chest and called the shadows to him, sinking effortlessly into the darkness and appearing moments later on the steps of the Big House.

He remembers screaming for help, not giving it even a second thought, and he remembers feeling as though the half-minute it took before he saw another face was a minute too long. He spent hours that night, covered in paint – for he refused to think of it as anything else – pacing the infirmary, asking, praying, _pleading_ with every single god and goddess he could think of that the boy would be alright, that he wouldn’t leave him like everyone else he has ever loved.

And he remembers how, hours into the night, when all that was left was to wait for those warm brown eyes to open, he noticed the blade clutched in his own hand, the one he had pried from withering fingers, the one tipped in that crimson paint that coated the floor of Bunker 9.

And he remembers thinking that never in his long-suffered life had he ever felt the same profound hopelessness.

* * *

Weeks later, and Nico is stumbling blindly through the days, not quite sure what to do with himself. He hasn’t spoken to Leo since before that night; Leo refuses to make a sound, and instead keeps his chin to his chest and his hands in his pockets. Nico can’t stand it, can’t stand the isolation Leo is condemning himself to. His heart breaks every time he sees Leo walk past, the fire in his heart completely gone but for a few waning embers.

He’s tried to help. He’s tried to get back inside Leo’s towering walls. But no matter what he does or says he can’t seem to reach out to the boy.

And it’s tearing Nico to shreds.

He can feel himself slipping slowly from controlled anxiety to outright panic, and he doesn’t know what he’ll do when he gets there, but Hades help him he would not let it get to that. Because when Nico panics, he _panics_. And nothing good can ever come from that.

He plans to talk to Leo, even if he doesn’t reply. He just needs to know that there’s still a part of the boy he loves left, that there’s still something there to be saved. Nico knows that, once you reach a certain point, there’s almost no possibility of turning back. He’s been there before, been stuck in that pit of pain and despair. And he barely made it out alive. He doesn’t know if he’ll succeed. He doesn’t know if there’s even a chance. But there is no force on earth that can stop him from trying.

It takes a few days, and they’re the longest days Nico’s ever lived through, but eventually he sees his opening. He’s no fool, so it takes it, even if he knows he’ll create a scene.

It’s just after midday, and Nico’s sitting alone at the Hades table in the Pavilion. He hasn’t moved to serve himself lunch; lately, he hasn’t had much of an appetite. But he still sits there, watching as he does every day, knowing that, eventually, Leo will have to come out to eat; despite everything, he knows the son of Hephaestus can’t starve himself.

And he’s glad that he’s bothered to sit through these gruelling meal times, because after ten minutes of staring at the entrance, scanning every face that’s gone by, he finally sees that familiar head of curls.

And then he’s on his feet without even thinking, and he’s walked the length of the Pavilion, keeping to the shadows, until he catches Leo half way to the Hephaestus table, stepping in front of him and abruptly stopping him in his tracks. Leo’s face doesn’t change; there’s not even a flicker of surprise, and Nico doesn’t know what hurts him more: knowing that Leo doesn’t even acknowledge him anymore, his boyfriend of 15 months, or that he’s that empty inside, that hollow, that broken, that he can’t even manage a simple change in expression.

“Leo,” Nico murmurs, like a breath caught in the wind.

Leo simply blinks, staring blankly at Nico for a moment, and Nico almost feels hopeful. But then Leo turns to walk away, and Nico panics, _finally_ panics, and he reaches out to grip Leo’s shoulder and turns him back around, holding him in place.

“No,” he says, and he hears the bark of the order in his tone and cringes internally. He doesn’t want to treat Leo like this. He wants to be able to talk to him about anything, anything at all, just like he used to, without worrying about the consequences. He wants his Leo back.

“No,” he repeats. “Don’t you dare walk away from me. Not again.”

Still, nothing changes in Leo’s face, and Nico makes a sound somewhere between frustration and annoyance.

“I know what you’re doing, Leo, and it won’t work, I promise. You can’t try to shut everyone out and just expect us to stop caring, because it doesn’t work like that. _You_ told me that, remember? You’re the one who told me I couldn’t push everyone away.”

Leo’s lips part around a sigh and his eyes meet Nico’s, and even though it’s only a slight change to the past five weeks, it’s more than enough to convince Nico to continue.

“You can’t just pretend that nothing’s happened. You can’t just ignore it all, because all you’re doing is putting off the inevitable. You’re avoiding your problems and it’s… look what it’s doing! Look what it’s _already done!_ Not just to you, but to your friends, your family, everyone around you. It’s not just you you’re taking down; you’re trying to punish yourself, but you can’t do that without punishing everyone else along with you.”

The Pavilion’s silent, and Nico can feel every set of eyes in the room pointed in his direction, but he doesn’t care. He can’t stop now. He has to keep going, even if it leads him nowhere. He can’t give up.

“You can’t blame yourself for everything that’s happened. Whether it was your fault or not, you can’t change the past. And even if you _do_ blame yourself… baby, let me do for you what you did for me!”

At the use of the term of endearment, Leo’s facade seems to crack. Nico rarely calls him anything but his name. It’s something special, something important, that he only shares in those precious moments when the world comes crashing down and the only thing lighting the way is his human torch. The one word means everything, sums up everything he feels in a nice, tight package with a ribbon and bow.

“I’m so lost right now, baby, and I need you more than anything, and you barely even _look_ at me. And I know you’re lost, too, and I know how empty you feel, and I know that you don’t think you’ll make it. I _know_. And that scares me, because you won’t let anyone help you. I’m scared, baby. I’m _terrified_. You just go around blocking everything out. You won’t talk to Piper and Jason, and they’re you’re _best friends!_ You won’t talk to me, and I don’t know what to do, baby! I don’t know how to help! Tell me what I need to do!”

Nico can feel the tears, can feel them falling, like rivulets pooling over his cheeks, but he does nothing to wipe them away. Instead he watches as Leo’s face contorts in a pain so severe that Nico’s afraid he’ll break. He surges forward and wraps his arms around Leo’s neck, gripping his head, holding his face to his shoulder. He has to push himself onto his toes to match the half-inch Leo has on him, but he doesn’t care because Leo shudders and wraps his arms around Nico so tightly that Nico knows he’s afraid that it’s an illusion, that Leo feels as though there couldn’t possibly be anyone left to hold him while he cries. He sobs, and it breaks Nico’s heart a thousand times over as each sounds tears it’s way past Leo’s lips, muffled through Nico’s shoulder. But he holds him close, refusing to let go, despite the crowd of campers around them, watching on, as though they have nothing better to do. He clutches onto Leo, pressing him closer and closer until they’re practically one body, but he doesn’t loosen his grip. They stand there for a long time, tears silently rolling down Nico’s cheeks as Leo’s disjointed, messy sobs break the ringing silence. And even after they’ve both stopped crying and their eyes are dry, they still stand there. Leo whispers an apology into Nico’s neck, and Nico whispers one back, and then they hold on impossibly tighter.

When they finally pull apart, Nico places a soft, tender kiss on Leo’s temple, and Leo breathes shakily as Nico’s lips make contact with his skin. Nico doesn’t once say that everything’s going to be okay, because he knows how meaningless the words are. But he holds on steadfast to Leo’s hand and utters promises under his breath, promises that he’ll be there, always, no matter what. Without bothering to look at anyone else, even from the corner of his eye, Nico leads Leo out of the Pavilion, through the camp and towards the Hades cabin. And then he sits Leo on his bed and crawls over his lap, legs wrapping around his waist, and presses his head to Leo’s, eyes shut. Leo’s fists his hands in the back of Nico’s shirt and tilts his chin up kiss him, softly but surely. For hours, they sit in the cabin, assuring each other just by being there, promising to never let go. No one disturbs them, and they’re both perfectly fine with that.

Nico knows that it’s going to take a long time, possibly years, for Leo to heal; he knows because he’s still healing himself. But he feels, for the first time in weeks, months, and even perhaps years, that they are both going to make it, no matter how much it takes, no matter how much grit and bone and blood.

_They’re going to make it_.


End file.
